Rhiannon picks up the basket of potatoes and carrots that Damon left by the door for her. She wanders across the kitchen careful not to get entangled in the orange Tom cat weaving between her legs. She places the basket on the counter. They are stainless steel and ancient. Perfect for an old farmhouse. She places the dirt covered root vegetables from the basket on the silvery counter top and with her right hand turns on the tap.
There’s the gentlest squeak, as water begins to cascade from the goose neck faucet into the sink. They’re recent upgrades made to the old-fashioned kitchen by Damon. How could a faucet and farmer’s sink become a reason for her to smile each day? She doesn’t know, but it really doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s the idea that her sweetheart did the renovation just for her.
As she washes away the grit with her fingers, she is overcome by a memory of her mother.
“God made your hands to work as a scrubber darlin’ ,” mama instructed while Rhiannon washed veggies. “You just have to work a little harder at keepin’ your hands clean is all.”
“Yes ma’am,” a young Rhiannon said in response. Sure to make use of the nail brush after she was done with whatever chore her mama allowed her to do.
What she wouldn’t give to have her mother help in her kitchen. Rhiannon is lucky enough to have Damon now. They plant the garden and grow vegetables together, but she has the chore of cleaning them. They do cook together though. Wouldn’t Mama be shocked to see a man cooking a meal alongside his wife? Rhiannon is sure it would make her kinda proud though.
While washing away the grit, she hums an incoherent tune and thinks of him. Her cheeks rouge and match the hue of the tiny, freshly scrubbed russet. Bringing it to her nose, she takes in the aroma of fresh earth. Who would have thought its scent would intoxicate her? She sets about the task of peeling carrots and removing their leafy tops with a knife that’s been sharpened at least a couple dozen times by her man.
She wonders where Damon is, but her curiosity is quickly sated by the familiar slamming of the screen door. Without a word, he glides up behind her, and presses his body into the curve of hers. She smiles as he puts his arms around her, helping her to set the knife and carrot down with care. He kisses her neck and cheek, and her body conforms to his like she was born to be a part of it.
Taking his hands into hers, she states, “Darling, your hands are filthy.”
“It comes from hard work honey.” he lovingly replies.
Rhiannon takes Damon’s hands into hers and places them lovingly under the tepid water. With one hand she grabs the liquid soap from beside the faucet and dispenses two pumps of it onto his work roughened hands. Setting it back down, she grabs the nail brush. Mama always told her to keep one handy in the kitchen. She sets about the task of gently exfoliating the work day from Damon’s hands. As she does, she feels the warmth of his body permeate her skin and knows that this is exactly what love feels like. The simple act of washing a loved one’s hands is, love.
Rhiannon rinses away the dirt under the rushing water. Upon closer inspection, she sees some dirt under his nails. With a few more strokes of the brush, they become pristine. After a final rinse, she grabs a dish towel to dry their hands. Damon places his hands on her hips. She reaches forward and turns the water off. The handle gives its familiar squeak.
In the din, comes only the sound of Damon’s breath in Rhiannon’s ear. His lips and tongue slide up the length of her neck, as the flush returns to her cheeks. Turning around, Rhiannon lets his arms engulf her. Damon kisses her voraciously on her slightly parted lips. His tongue slips between them and into her warm mouth. Tongues entwine while their desire is at its Genesis. They leave the kitchen and vegetables behind.
Dinner will have to wait while their other appetites are satisfied.